He has a Scar on his Neck
by poetrygirl22
Summary: Porthos barely remembers how he got that scar. Aramis will never forget. His actions caused it, and he will never forgive himself for that. 2 shot.
1. For a brother

**I don't own a single Musketeer, let alone four.**

Porthos has a scar on the back of his neck.

He wears high collared shirts to hide it. The years have made it fade. But it's still there.

To Aramis it stands out a single drop of blood on a clean cloth. It isn't meant to be there.

It is long and straight. Aramis traces down it with his hand. It leads down his back, a steady track. Porthos catches his hand. He turns his head to look up at his friend. His eyes are deep and searching.

It wasn't left by a sword. Not a knife or a bullet. Not a scar from the wars that they've fought and the battles they've won. It's deeper, darker. It hints at a darkness. One that they both try to suppress. They build their brotherhood around that scar. They try to forget what leads to it. It only resurfaces in nightmares, when they are alone in the dark.

For Aramis that nightmare is one of the worst. For Porthos it is one of many. It is a blurred memory, as faded as the mark it leaves. For Aramis it is the greatest injustice of his life.

He had grown up in a wealthy family. His father was a priest, but he had wanted to live lace to the full. So he had packed his bags and left his family. His father's letter of recommendation finding him a place as a soldier. He was one of the first people chosen to be a Musketeer.

Porthos had grown up in the Court of Miricles. He had been hungry and a thief. An orphan. Treville had given him a path to claw his way out of the gutter. He walked into the Garrison with a look of wonder in his eyes, and pride in his step.

Their friendship had started with curiosity. Aramis had wondered how somebody could face such trials and still laugh and smile. So he had approached him. Porthos hadn't trusted him at first. Everyone else looked down on him, thought him not worthy because of his skin colour. He expected Aramis to do the same. They became brothers. Aramis would sew his shirts. Porthos would cook for them. They defended each other in bar brawls, then on missions. Porthos worked tirelessly, and still no commission came. Then Athos walked in. They did a mission together. Porthos saved the new man's life. When they arrived back Athos got commissioned. Porthos clapped and cheered him on. He drank with him. Aramis had been so angry. Porthos had calmed him down, had helped him forgive Athos. Then Porthos's commission came. And they celebrated like they had never before.

They were brothers now. The three of them. And Aramis had never felt trust like it.

Then he had lost control.

He had started sleeping with more women, barely escaping their husbands. He was seen. He was taken to trial. He got fined. Treville berated him. Then it happened again. He got fined more money this time. He had to send a letter to his parents begging them for funds. They were not well pleased.

Then he went to far.

He slept with a visiting dignitary's wife.

And before he knew it they had left the city and he was standing before a judge. And the he was saying those words. Execution. Dawn.

Then there had been pounding footsteps.

And a booming voice he knew so well proclaiming that it was him.

And he was thrown back into the crowd. Athos and Treville restrained him as Porthos was pushed forward. More men held him back and the judge sneered. He called him a half-breed, a slave's spawn, a dog, a mongrel. And he was saying those words. Lashing, tomorrow at dawn. It should be a fine. It was his first offence. It shouldn't be this. He shouldn't have to pay this way. Not for another's crimes.

Aramis pressed his face towards the bars. Porthos stood on the other side. His brother. And he was begging, pleading with God above him that his brother wouldn't have to pay for his crimes. Pleading, begging, bargaining.

And there was silence. The air was heavy. A mast had been mounted in the middle. All Musketeers had to be present. They had to watch.

Porthos was pulled out. His lip had burst, his nose bleeding. His eye was swollen shut, black and purple. He was tethered to the mast. His ripped shirt was removed. Aramis felt arms holding him back. Athos was struggling opposite him. Treville was just standing there, every muscle tense.

The Red Guard brought the whip down. It parted the skin. It came down again and again and again. And he was letting out a roar of pain, like that of a bear with knife in it's leg. And the whip came down again. And the Red Guards had to hold back the Musketeers, trying to save their brother's in arms. Recruits were called. Aramis was oblivious to it all. He could only hear the sound of a whip hitting flesh, only smell the flood which was dripping onto the flagstones. Too much blood. There was too much blood. And then fifty had been counted and Treville charged forward, batting away the Red Guards surrounding him. He ripped the whip out of his hand and dropped it on the floor. The Red Guards left, their laughter echoing as the walked away.

Aramis cradled Porthos's head in his hands. He was untied. His eyes were glassy, and he let out a whimper of pain as they pressed clean bandages into his raw back. They were blood soaked in seconds.

And he was lying on his bed. On his front. And his back was a mess. There wasn't even enough skin left to sew together in some places. And he let out a sound that contained such pain it felt like a dagger was slowly being twisted in Aramis's heart.

Porthos has a scar on his back. The pain of that day has faded for him. But Aramis will always remember. He will relive that day every night in his sleep. He will wake up sweating and screaming.

He will always remember.

Why Porthos has a scar on his neck.


	2. The guilt stays with us

**Part Two**

**I don't own the Musketeers.**

* * *

Porthos lay motionless before Aramis. D'Artagnan had heard that a punch was the only way to submit the larger man, but it seemed so brutal. Bonnaire was whimpering behind him. Aramis carefully removed the injured man's shirt, making a face at the amount of blood covering his shoulder.

Scars were littered across his back. They were all sewn with the same small, tidy stitches. Aramis started talking about he had sustained that injury and this one, clearly trying to fill the oppressive silence that filled the air. He refused to look at Athos, and with good reason. D'Artagnan still couldn't believe that Athos had not mentioned this house. What reason was there that was worth letting a brother die needlessly?

It was clear that Aramis hadn't just let it go, and behind his jokes there was a anger in his eyes. Porthos clearly meant everything to him. D'Artagnan stepped forward, glancing at the scars. He pointed at one on the unconscious man's left arm, and Aramis told him of a stray musket ball a few years back. The scar on his side marked where someone had smashed a bottle in a bar fight, another caused by bandits. Then d'Artagnan pointed at the multiple long, straight scars running from the top of his neck to the small of his back. They were old, but were deep enough to leave a permanent scar.

When d'Artagnan asked what had happened, Aramis face grew ashen, and he physically flinched away from him. His hands started shaking, and he started gnawing on his bottom lip. D'Artagnan felt a hand on his soldier, gently pressing him away from the trembling man. He looked across at Athos, curiosity shining clear on his face. "He needs to know." Aramis's words were raspy, with gaps in between them as if he were mustering up the courage to carry on speaking. "Why shouldn't he? Why shouldn't he know about my utter stupidity? Why shouldn't he know about what happened, about what I did?" His voice grew stronger with each word, till he was shouting. He buried his head in his hands, his blood soaked palms leaving a crimson trail across his cheek. Aramis looked at Athos, as if challenging him to disagree. Athos looked at his feet.

"You don't need to tell me, if you don't want to…" d'Artagnan words sounded hesitant even to him. He knew whatever it was that had happened must be hard to remember. But a part of his brain ached to know what was going on, and he was ashamed of it.

"You need to know." Aramis's words were low, and he refused to make eye contact. "There was a Duchess, and I charmed her. Then a Count's wife, then a Lady." He went to rub his hands over his face again, but froze when he saw the blood. His face went even paler than it had before, and he pulled the bandage off Porthos's shoulder. He fumbled for his needle and thread, his eyes transfixed on his work. "The first time the court fined me, the next time it fined me more. I knew it would be harsher next time, I knew, I knew." He pushed the needle through the flesh of Porthos's back, muttering his words so quietly d'Artagnan had to strain to hear. "And then I got caught again, and they were going to hang me. It was my third time. I deserved it." He looked up on the last sentence, watching the younger man's face for a reaction. "And then he came striding in. Just walked in with four Red Guards behind him. And he confessed. And they dragged him to the front. The Judge said he was to be whipped. 50 lashes. At dawn. With the entire Musketeer regiment as witnesses." Aramis continued to move the needle, in, out, in, out.

"He just accepted it. Said of course it was unfair, but it was life. That he would do anything to save me from the noose." In, out, in, out. "Then it was dawn. And everyone was gathered. The whip just came down and he was yelling. And the blood dripped onto the floor." Aramis traced his finger gently down the scars, "So much blood."

D'Artagnan's feet started moving. His hands found the door and slammed it behind him. And he walked across the corridor and up some stairs, and more, and more. He started to sprint, up, along, up, along again. Then he was in the derelict attic, and he couldn't run up anymore. He rested his head against the sloping roof, squeezing his eyes tight shut. It was no use. He could still see a younger Porthos tethered up. He could still hear the sound of a whip meeting flesh, the sound of men laughing. Images flashed in his mind. He could smell the blood in the air.

Porthos. Aramis. Now he understood. They went out each day and risked their lives, knowing full well that one could die. Living to protect the other. Aramis wouldn't forgive Athos for a long time. He'd bury it deep inside and laugh and drink with him with a smile on his lips and mirth on his tone. It would resurface when they'd all had too much to drink, D'Artagnan was sure. But that would come later.

For now he would go and apologise to Aramis for leaving. Convince him that he doesn't blame the other man. Offer a shoulder to cry on. Go and prove to himself that Porthos is there, and that the past is in the past. All is left is a scar. A scar on his neck.


End file.
